Awake Your Soul
by AThousandVoices
Summary: A collection of Sweenett one-shots, canon and alternate-universe.
1. The Wind in Your Hair

_**A/N:** This is a little collection of Sweenett oneshots/drabbles inspired by the 30_breathtakes challenge on livejournal! The idea of the challenge is to use the prompt and pick a pairing and then write 30 pieces about something so breathtakingly beautiful that you (obviously) forget to breathe. However, I'm a little wary of writing 30 pieces about beauty in the Sweenett setting, so I guess I'm taking some artistic freedom (:_

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><p>prompt 1: the wind in your hair<p>

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><p>Nellie always loved the sea. She had grown infatuated with the rolling azure waves, the sparkling salt, the way the sand caked itself between her toes. For her whole life, her dreams had consisted of a small seaside cottage and a son and a man to love. And now she could see it perfectly; the way Mr. T would smile at her as he sharpened his razors, the way Toby would chase the seagulls and laugh. It was so perfect and so real that it was almost reality. She would sit on a rocker on the porch and let the wind dip its fingers into her unruly hair and she wouldn't care that her curls were auburn instead of gold or that her skin was milky white instead of peach.<p>

Sitting on the settee, Mrs. Lovett smoothed her skirts and straightened her back, tilting her chin up into the salty sea wind. She closed her eyes, reaching atop her head to pull the pins out, and crimson curls cascaded down her back, tangled and messy. She let the wind pull at them, smelling the crisp tang of salt, tasting it at the back of her throat. Sweeney would be sitting beside her, of course. She turns, giving an exhilarated smile as her breath catches in her throat. He is staring at the sea, his brow furrowed, his tangled mass of ebony hair dancing in the wind. He is so regal, so beautiful. And Nellie knows some day he will be hers.


	2. The Sun on Your Face

_**A/N:** So I definitely took this differently than intended, but I read the prompt and this is immediately what came to mind_

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><p>prompt 2: the sun on your face<p>

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><p>The shop door tinkles and Mrs. Lovett pushes her way in, watching Sweeney Todd stare out the window as he always does, silver razor in his hand. "Brought ya some supper, love," she says, shifting the tray so that she holds it on her hip. He continues to stare, his back to her, and she huffs. "Mr T!" she calls again, but he merely lifts the razor in front of him. The sun is setting now, tendrils of light snaking through the thick window panes. As he rotates the razor in front of her Mrs. Lovett clucks and steps toward him, watching his face. The razor catches roving beams of light and glimmers, and Mr. Todd's face changes immediately. His lips part in silent admiration and his eyes hold a look Nellie recognizes from when he had looked at Lucy. She can only hope that someday he will gaze at her like that, that perhaps she could be the recipient of his admiration.<p> 


	3. Crimson

_**A/N:** So this isn't exactly Sweenett... I was going to keep going with it to make it Sweenett, but I just kind of felt like it needed to end here. Enjoy anyway!_

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><p>prompt 3: the look in your eye<p>

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><p>Snick. Snick. Snick. Snick.<p>

Sweeney Todd flicks his razor open and closed, admiring how the blade slides sensuously against its metal sheath, his attention focused on his silver friend. Soon, my pet. Soon. He snaps his head up as the shop door opens and the telltale bell sings of an arrival. Another customer. A smile tugs at his lips and he stands, returning the razor to its holster for now. "Good evening, sir. Have you come for a shave?" The man smiles, hanging his hat on the coatrack and pulling off his dark grey coat.

"Evening," he returns, heading toward the chair. "Yes I have! Best barber in London they say."

Sweeney smirks. If only they knew. He reaches for the lather, whipping it with the brush, and puts a hand on the man's shoulder. "That is kind of them."

In a flash, his razor is out and sharpening on the strop. Anticipation makes his fingertips throb, and he cannot wait to spill this man's precious rubies, to taste the blood as it froths forth from his throat like some twisted fountain of youth, to feed his beautiful friend. Holding the razor up, Sweeney smiles, tilting it until it catches the light. He brings his hand down sharply across the man's throat, tearing effortlessly through muscle and sinew and tissue. The man gurgles, and the fear and pain in his eyes for one brief moment make Sweeney tremble in pleasure. The look in his eyes... the way the rubies cascade down his throat... Sweeney Todd is breathless. He holds his razor up once the man's convulsions stop, admiring how the crimson liquid glimmers in contrast to the bright silver. He feels powerful, whole. This is what he was created for.

Bringing the razor to his lips, Sweeney kisses the metal softly, deep red blood sticking to his mouth. He licks his lips, reveling in the coppery liquid that warms his body. Perfection. This is perfection.


	4. Winter

_**A/N: ** So I tried to write something a bit happier, and I'm not quite sure if I like it. It didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but oh well! Here's an attempt at least_

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><p>prompt 4: in the snow<p>

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><p>"Mr. Todd?"<p>

Mrs. Lovett shifts her weight slightly, resting her hand on her hip. Would it kill him to look at her every once in a while? He wrapped himself in the past as if it was an impenetrable armor, as if he would perish if it had a single fault. She frowns. Can't he see that she's here, that she's alive and real and waiting for him? She has cooked his meals, baked his victims into pies, accepted that he will never love her, and she receives nothing in return. No thanks, no appreciation. Just his silence.

"Mr. T!"

He turns slowly toward her, running his thumb over his razor as his dark eyes lift to her face. He says nothing, his brows puckered. "I'm talking to you," she says, but it does not come out angry as she intended and instead her voice holds tones of resignation and sorrow. Clearing her throat, Mrs. Lovett brushes hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand. He continues to stare, seemingly unaware of the way her cheeks flush with his gaze.

"I'm going to the market, love, an' I was wonderin' if you'd come with me."

He frowns, his eyes glazed over, and Mrs. Lovett knows she will lose him in the past again if she does not do something soon.

"Please?"

He nods tersely, and Nellie feels her heart swell with happiness. It's a rare occasion when Sweeney Todd ventures from his shop, and she takes each occurrence as though it's the most precious gift she will ever receive. And it is. Feeling his hand when it lingers occasionally on her arm, being able to guide him through the stalls and touch his shoulder. It is the closest thing she has to his love.

Smiling brightly, she grabs for his wrist to lead him out the door, but he wrenches it back with a glare. Mrs. Lovett falters for a moment but pastes her smile back on, hoping he doesn't see how forced it is.

"Right then. Come on!"

It is snowing. Mrs. Lovett huffs. "Bloody weather," she grumbles, lifting her skirts as she glides down the icy stairs. The flakes come in watery clumps, accumulating on the cobblestones and dusting everything in wintery sorrow. If it does not stop, there will be no way to return from market, and Eleanor doubts the stall owners would remain open in this weather. Sweeney follows her, oblivious to the chill and snow, and stares at the street in a daze.

Grinning, Mrs. Lovett looks down at the dusting of snow on the ground. She scrapes it together, hissing as the cold permeates her fingerless lacy gloves. Pressing it into a meager ball, Mrs. Lovett straightens herself and tosses the ball of snow at Sweeney. It hits with a soft thump, sticking to the back of his head. Sweeney whirls around and his razor is out in a flash as Mrs. Lovett backs hastily away, fear evident in her gaze.

He blinks.

The razor lowers slightly as he notices that Mrs. Lovett is fighting to keep a smile back, and as she sees his anger diminish she strides forward and reaches around to brush the snow from his hair. But her eagerness is taken too soon, and she soon finds herself on her back in the snow. Sweeney snarls over her, triumphant, his lip curled into a small smile. Wide-eyed, Mrs. Lovett struggles to catch her breath. He is so close. He mustn't realize the way their legs touch or how his hands are pressed on her shoulders. She is breathless at the way his hair falls around his face, snow still stuck to some parts, and the way the cloudy sky frames his body perfectly, and the way the snowflakes fall lightly onto his barber's jacket. Her chest heaves.

Sweeney's eyes narrow at Mrs. Lovett's expression, her eyes so wide and her breath so short. And then he notices that her fiery hair finds nice contrast in the white snow, her dress pooled around her like liquid night, her face full of awe. And he wonders if perhaps he has been blind for too long.


	5. Pace

prompt 5: the way you walk

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><p>He paces like a caged tiger, constantly seeking a way out though he knows none exist. His muscles are coiled, taut, his mouth a thin line of determination. He is surely wearing down the floor, but Mrs. Lovett cannot bring herself to ask him to stop. She watches him, her eyes trained on his every move as if she is challenging him to break free of this, to escape his prison and be free. She knows he never will. Instead, he glides across the room, twisting gracefully on his heel to pass by the window again, his eyes ever trained on the warped glass panes.<p>

There is nothing to see.

Nellie is sure he knows this. The sky is painted a rich navy, stars poking their way though the thick smog. The only light comes from street lanterns, but the candlelight inside the room casts the tonsorial parlor's reflection in front of anything in the outside world.

She does not smile. She never does any more. This is their nightly ritual, and she knows not to disturb him. She is content to watch his muscles ripple under his white shirt, to love the way his hair moves gently with every abrupt twist he takes. She imagines what strength it takes to pace like this, to show so much majesty. And every night, it leaves her breathless.


	6. Truth

prompt 6: handwriting/letter

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><p>Mrs. Lovett rubbed her thumb along the parchment, wishing she could sear the ink into the back of her brain, that she could let it sink into her fingers and be a part of her. The writing was black as a crow, the script elegant and slanted. If she brought it up to her face she could almost see the way he held the pen, every time he lifted it and dipped it in ink. She could picture him saying the words, that his soft voice was reading them aloud to her.<p>

Sitting on the settee, Nellie let herself stare. The tears would not come. They never did. She had long ago shed her last tear, long ago worn out her eyes. Of all things to remember, she did not know why this particular letter of Benjamin's was so important. He had meant to send it to Lucy's family but had spilled ink on the bottom right corner, and Mrs. Lovett had stolen it from the wastebasket in his shop. And now she could stare at the meaningless words and pretend they are to her, that he is writing because he loves her and misses her and wants to proclaim his love. But she is finding it harder and harder to pretend when the dismal truth is standing before her.


	7. Dissipate

prompt 7: orange sunset

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><p>Orange. It was the color of dwindling hope, of descent into crimson. Of her hope in the clutches of Sweeney Todd. The color of the sunset, disappearing over the horizon. Mrs. Lovett clung to the railing overlooking her courtyard, her knuckles white against the dark mahogany wood. Her eyes were fixed on the setting sun, disappearing behind harsh-cut buildings and ragged skylines. It was astonishing, how something so close to yellow could be so close to the deep crimson that haunted her dreams. It was strange. She couldn't remember her dreams sinking like this, changing slowly for all to see. It was quick to her, unnoticeable.<p>

But when she looked out to the horizon, she knew that she had realized all along.

Her dreams _did_ sink slowly, hope turning orange then red then black. She just chose not to see.


	8. Perfect

_**A/N**: I'm not really that happy with it; I think I'm pretty bad at Sweeney scenes haha. But reviews are love, even if they're criticism (constructive, please!) (:_

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><p>prompt 8: you're good at what you do<p>

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><p>Mrs. Lovett stands in the bakehouse, bent over the wooden table dripping with blood and innards, her cleaver digging into the man's flesh again and again, tearing savagely at sinews and skin and veins as she wrenches it from the bone cleanly with a sickening ripping, peeling the skin off and tossing it into the grinder. The orange firelight casts an eerie glow on her and her work.<p>

Sweeney Todd stares, his dark eyes locked on the morbid display. He never noticed, never realized how gracefully she can slice through men, how effortlessly she wielded the cleaver. She was like him, he realized. They were both bringers of death. And seeing her like this, Sweeney Todd realized that perhaps they were not as different as he thought. Perhaps she was more perfect for him than he had ever realized.


	9. Differences

_**A/N**: So it's not really_ _a breathtake or about body language, but hey. Again, reviews keep me going (;_

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><p>prompt 9: body language<p>

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><p>He is tense while she is loose, he is silent while she is ceaselessly speaking. He carries himself regally and proudly while she pretends to be. He is unaware while she is not. He is blind while she can see, he is dead while she is alive. He has given in. She has not and never will.<p> 


End file.
